


Spare Him Rotten, Spoil Him Sweet

by April_Blooms



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Courting Rituals, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Gift Giving, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Presents, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Blooms/pseuds/April_Blooms
Summary: Jaskier is annoying and whiny and spoiled, asking for things they can’t possibly afford when they need the money for essentials. Geralt eventually learns to tune out the bard’s crazy requests, yelling at him to shut up when he demands petty luxuries that Geralt will scoff at and never provide.Geralt thinks he knows everything about Jaskier, until he collapses in the road and Geralt sees his tunic is patched, his boots worn out and his body weak with sickness.“I don’t understand.” Geralt says. “He’s such a fussy bard. He whines to me about the style of his clothes and sweet dainties he wishes he had. Why didn’t he tell me he was hurting and cold and sick?”The healer nods. “Seems he made those stupid requests so you would ignore his needs and get things you needed. He suffered to spare you necessity, but didn’t want you to know.”Geralt turned to Jaskier and promised. "If you live, every good thing I can lay at your feet will be yours. Every sweetmeat, every trinket, every star in the sky, if it is within my power to give you, you will have it. I will make sure you never want for anything in your entire life."I swear, Jaskier. You wore yourself down rotten for me. I’ll spoil you sweet."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 84
Kudos: 634





	Spare Him Rotten, Spoil Him Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So I really have no place here, I haven't read the books, seen the show or played the game and this whole fic exists in some nebulous timeline, so please forgive me But I really love Jaskier/Geralt an I wanted to write Geralt spoiling his bard and buying him sweets and wrapping him up and just generally being soft toward Jaskier, so I wrote a fic exclusively about Geralt spoiling Jaskier. This is not post- mountain? I don't think? I don't even know. Just pure fluff. Let me know if you like it.

Geralt has been robbed of a contract, bitten by a guard dog, and lost a perfectly good meal to an angry barmaid when the heavens decide to open and he is immediately soaked through. If he had Jaskier’s eloquence, he would be raving curses at the sky, but the only response he can muster is a passionate. “Fuck.”

  
“Fuck indeed!” says Jaskier, shouting to be heard through the rain and the _slop slop_ of mud on the ground. “You would think a great witcher with a weapon to combat any threat would have a parasol to wield against this downpour!”

  
Geralt growls in frustration and nudges Roach to go a little faster, listening to Jaskier slip and slide in the mud as he hurries to catch up. He has no food in his belly, no roof over his head, and the fucking bard is going on about parasols.

  
“Don’t be so down, Geralt. I’m sure another nasty beastie in need of slaying will turn up presently. In the meanwhile, do you think you could stop a moment so I can put my lute into one of your packs? The water will wreak havoc on the strings and not even to mention the paint!”

  
“Roach doesn’t need to be weighed down by more of your stupid shit.” The rain is dribbling down his collar now, plastering his hair to his head. “Your lute, your problem.”

  
He hears Jaskier’s steps stumble and falter, and he spares a quick glance back at the bard. His fancy boots are plastered up to the knee with mud, and he strips off his nice jacket and doublet as well, and wraps his lute in them as best he can. The sight of Jaskier limping onward, dressed only in his undertunic, hunched over his lute to protect it best he can, fills Geralt with a sort of disgusting guilt. He almost stops to offer to make room for the instrument in his pack, when Jaskier opens his mouth again.

  
“Oh, my boots are absolutely ruined!. I’ll have to write an elegy to them, the fine Toussaint leather, the studded buckles. Geralt, we’ll have to make room in our budget for a pair of Toussaint leather boots. I've heard blue leather is in vogue nowadays, and I absolutely can’t be seen in anything out of fashion.”

  
Geralt’s ire rises again at the notion of such extravagant stupidity, and he puts the image of Jaskier’s muddied, limping feet out of his mind and urges Roach ever onward.

  
oOo

  
They make their way to another town, and sleep in the stables when they can’t afford the inn. Geralt orders Jaskier to sleep beside Roach, where the human can share her body heat, but the bard puts up such an outcry at her smell that Roach’s ears lie flat again her skull and Geralt doesn’t feel guilty at all when he shoves Jaskier to the corner and lies beside his horse.

  
Roach’s bulk of warmth seeps into his sore muscles and soothes them, and Geralt awakes feeling slightly less awful than the night before. He finds Jaskier with a bowl of porridge in the inn, and only grunts when the bard whines about the flavor and shoves it across to him.

  
Jaskier seems to do a lot more whining and complaining after that walk in the rain, nonsensical, ridiculous complaints that Geralt has little patience for.

  
When Geralt takes him to the market to buy him new boots with the last of their coin, Jaskier says. “This half-witted country cobbler has no idea how to make boots. I knew I could only ever walk in comfort in shoes made in Toussaint.” Geralt shoves him and uses the money to buy a new bridle for Roach instead.

  
In the tavern, when the barmaid refuses to serve Geralt, Jaskier shoves his mug aside. “Here, Geralt, drink this piss that passes for ale. It’s so strong it’s turning my sweet singing throat sour.” Geralt snorts at the bard’s sensitive tastes and downs the drink.

  
“Really, Geralt, the audacity of buying me that ugly coat.” Jaskier complains. “ I’d sooner catch my death of cold than wear it.” He tugs over a great black cloak, plain but well made. “You and your absolute lack of fashion sense can suffer through this cloak, though.” Geralt snatches the cloak from him and hands the ugly coat back to the tailor, anger rising at all nobles and their fussy haughty ways.

  
Geralt huffs, and Geralt groans, and Geralt will threaten to turn him out. (And secretly, silently, Geralt sometimes smiles, because the bard is so ridiculous at times.) Jaskier is annoying and whiny and spoiled, asking for things they can’t possibly afford when they need the money for essentials. Geralt eventually learns to tune out the bard’s crazy requests. It is easy, so easy, to be with Jaskier, to let him fill the silence, and bargain for contracts, and yell at him to shut up when he demands petty luxuries that Geralt will scoff at and never provide.

  
Jaskier puts Geralt in mind of the younger boys at Kaer Morhen, who cried for toys and sweets and mothers. Older witchers would take rods and spank them, to teach them not to be spoiled. Geralt counts himself generous. He never takes a rod to Jaskier or truly intends to leave him, no matter how spoiled or ridiculous the request.

  
They are plodding along the path, when Jaskier’s chatter about how his boots look awful and his complexion has been ruined by the weather suddenly stops. Geralt breathes and enjoys the silence. Then he realizes Jaskier’s footsteps have stopped too. Geralt sighs and draws his sword. 

  
“If you decided to chase somethings and it eats you, this will be the last time I clean up your mess-”

  
Geralt turns, but there is no beast, only Jaskier lying face flat on the ground, silent and unmoving.

  
Geralt freezes.

  
Maybe Jaskier is just tired he reasons. He whines about needing a break every half mile, protesting every step and declaring he will lay down for a rest and make Geralt wait for him. Maybe he finally decided to do it. Maybe he’s just napping now. Or he’s tripped on those boots he’s been complaining about.

  
But the crumpled heap is silent, and Jaskier never does anything silently, never in his life. Before Geralt knows it, the bloodrush of a battle is roaring in his ears as he leaps off of Roach and turns Jaskier onto his back.

  
The recent complaints about his complexion that Geralt had ignored as vanity and nonsense have manifested as a hot, stiff flush across Jaskier’s whole face. His skin is burning to the touch, and his eyes are murky and glassy. Geralt has seen many horrible things in his horrible, long life, but the sight of the bard dead-eyed and unmoving strikes terror through his heart.  
  
Scooping Jaskier into his arms (he’s as limp as a doll, _oh gods, oh gods_.) Geralt swings up on Roach and digs in his heels, riding like a demon, for a town, for a doctor.

  
oOo

  
The first house they come to, Geralt drives Roach to the doorstep and bangs on the lintel without even dismounting. “I need a healer!” He shouts. “Healer!”

  
An old man opens the door, and Geralt spares a thought to how terrifying he must look, a witcher mounted on a lathered horse, eyes wild and shouting at the top of his lungs.

  
“I know my humors.” says the old man.”And how to balance them. Let me see him.”

  
Geralt looks him up and down, taking in the hoary hair and whiskers. He doesn’t look like too much of a healer, but the town might still be miles away, and Jaskier might not have much longer to go.

  
Geralt carries him into the little hut, ducking under the doorframe and hitting his head against the various drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. The old man leads Geralt to what must be his own bed, and Geralt gently sets Jaskier down upon it.

  
The old man bustles about lighting a few lamps, and then leans over Jaskier’s form.

  
“What happened to him?”

  
“Collapsed in the middle of the road without a word.”

  
“I see.” The man opens up Jaskier’s shirt, checks his pulse. “How long had you been walking?”

  
“I don’t know.” Geralt can’t come up with an answer. He hadn’t counted the miles. He hadn’t counted the years. As long as he had known him, Jaskier had been walking beside him. He had no way to quantify that.

  
The old man raises an eyebrow. “You came in on a horse. You were riding. Do you always let your companion walk as you ride? Or is he your servant?”

  
 _Not my servant_ , is what Geralt wants to say, but what comes out is “I don’t pay him.”

  
The old man gave him a poisonous look.

  
“So witchers keep human pets, then? Only a dog would walk beside a master unpaid.”

  
The old healer wrenches off Jaskier’s boots and lets them drop to the floor. The scent of blood and sweat soaked leather rises to Geralt’s nose. He stares silent, uncomprehending. 

  
“Good gods.” says the healer. “How he kept walking, I’ll never know.”

  
Jaskier’s feet are red, calloused, and blistered, but that is not the worst of it. The left foot is twisted, the joint of the toes overgrown and fused with bone. The healer scrubs the blood off them and pokes at the bunion. “Broke it and was forced to keep walkin' on it, until the joint broke and rebroke and finally fused over. Funny. You think he might have mentioned a broken foot to you.”

  
Geralt could feel the sensation leaving his face. “He didn’t.” It didn’t make sense. Jaskier talked about everything, complained about every little inconvenience. He would have whined about a broken toe non-stop, no matter how much Geralt threatened to leave him behind. He tells the healer as much.

  
The old man looks at him like he’s stupid. “You threaten to leave him behind and now you’re shocked that he didn’t take the time to rest and find a decent healer? Foot or no foot, he had to go, because he knew you were too much of a brute to stop for him.”

  
“I’m not a brute.” Geralt says,words swelling and not coming out. He didn’t mean to be a brute, he truly didn’t, he didn’t want Jaskier limping after him in pain. The old man doesn’t even spare him a glance.

  
He strips off Jaskier’s doublet, and as soon as he takes it off, Geralt can see the clever stitching where the worn silk has been patched and patched again. He picks it up gently off the floor and thumbs at it. Jaskier, so fussy about his clothes, yet wearing his twice-mended old things. Why hadn’t he bought a new one? They had been at market, there had been dozens of doublets and sashes on display. Why had Jaskier only complained about the horrendous styles when anything would have been better than what he had?

  
Geralt thumbs his new heavy black cloak with a rising horror.

  
The healer has now torn open Jaskier’s white undertunic and is feeling about his chest. He snatches the doublet from Geralt.

  
“This damned frippery all he’s been wearing?” Gerlat nods dumbly. The man’s face goes red with anger. “He been out in the rain lately?” Geralt cannot even respond, but the man reads the answer on his face.

  
“Damn you, beast!” The healer strikes him hard across the face. “You would have been more merciful to run him through. Feel that-” He grabs one of Geralt’s hands and places it on Jaskier’s chest. “Feel that hot stiff flush? That’s Rain-Burn. Stand in the cold wet too long, a hot fever will come and burn every drop of sweat and water out of you ‘til you’re good and dead.”

  
Even through the thick calluses of his hands, Geralt can feel the heat of Jaskier’s skin. Already he can see the beads of sweat the man mentioned swelling up on his forehead. 

  
“How can we save him?”

  
“Save him!” the man snorts. 

  
“I won’t let him die.”

  
“You’ve as good as killed him, now you want to save him?”

  
“I never meant for this!” Geralt roared. He claws at his head in self loathing, his fingers slipping too easily through hair Jaskier had washed and combed and oiled, complaining about the smell and how bad it made him look traveling with a sloppy companion.

  
“I don’t understand.” Geralt says. “He’s such a fussy bard. He babbles, he sings, he talks about everything. He whines to me about the style of his clothes and sweet dainties he wishes he had and the court ladies he wants to fuck. Why didn’t he tell me he was hurting and cold and sick?”

  
The old man looks at him and sighs. “When I was young, a famine hit our land. We had nothing but scraps and weeds to eat. My oldest sister, she’d always complain about the food. She wanted white bread with honey, roast meat and sweet buns. She’d shove her food away and let us eat it. We didn’t feel guilty, taking food from an ungrateful complainer who didn’t want it anyway.”

  
The healer sighs. “My brother and I survived that famine. My sister starved away. It was only once we were older that we realized. She had distracted us, sighing after things she knew we didn’t have, so my brother and I could eat what little there was.”

  
The man nods toward Jaskier on the bed. “Seems he did the same thing. Making stupid requests so you would ignore his needs and get the things you needed. He suffered to spare you necessity, but didn’t want you to know.”

  
Geralt looks at Jaskier, now beginning to sweat and writhe on the bed. 

  
“How can I repay him?” he asks.

  
“There’s nothing you can do.” the old man said. “Whether he pulls though or not is up to him. You can daub away his sweat to ease the Rain-Burn and give him water. And after-”

  
Geralt looks up at the healer, in anticipation of the after. “After, you either bury him with all the pomp you can afford, or you spoil him and look after his every need for the rest of his life. To deny his needs to follow a witcher. He’s either the stupid or noblest man I’ve ever met.”

  
Geralt looks at Jaskier and thinks of the young bard who decided to follow a witcher across the Continent. It was stupid. There was no comfort, little coin and much suffering on the Path. Yet Jaskier had taken it upon himself to repair Geralt’s reputation, advocate for him to humanity and provide him with a companionship that, no matter how grating at times, Geralt knew he needed.

  
Stupid and noble. Complaining and kind. Loud and fragile.

  
That was Jaskier.

  
The healer passed Geralt a bowl of water and a cloth. Geralt took them carefully in hand and dabbed gently at his head, cloth clutched like the most precious of swords in the most desperate of battles.

  
Jaskier might very well die here, at Geralt's hand, and if so, Geralt would mourn him all his long life.

  
 _But if you live._ Geralt swore. _If you live, every good thing I can lay at your feet will be yours. Every sweetmeat, every trinket, every star in the sky, if it is within my power to give you, you will have it. I will make sure you never want for anything in your entire life, you will be more spoiled than a pig in a banquet hall._

  
_I swear, Jaskier. You wore yourself down rotten for me. I’ll spoil you sweet._

**Author's Note:**

> So , never wrote for the Witcher before, how was it? How would you like to see Jaskier spoiled? Should it get smutty? You tell me! I'm think maybe three chapters here, send in your ways to spoil Jaskier requests! You know he deserves it!


End file.
